


In The Absence of Gentleness

by orphan_account



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, Minor Violence, not really focused on that much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theirs is a story tinged with violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Absence of Gentleness

They don’t do gentle, they never have.

 

It doesn’t surprise or appal her as much as it probably should because she believed it was, in a way, inevitable. Her parents rarely spoke to each other and, when they did, it was laced with venom. He never really said much about his parents, but she couldn’t imagine the situation being much different; after all, he needed to fetch his temper from somewhere.

 

He would pin her to the wall as if he was caressing her cheek, like it was a normal thing to do.

 

The first time was in New York, while they were waiting to sale to England. He had insisted on going out because “this room is going to real small, darlin’ “ and she had gone with him to stop him from doing anything stupid. But he had gotten loose with his hands and she had gotten jealous when they landed on another women’s waist so she had left, but not before pouring a drink over his head. He had returned to the hotel- hotel was probably too nice a word for it- slurring his words and falling around the place. He banged on the door but soon gave up and fallen asleep against it. She opened it the next morning, and he fell over but it woke him up. He had tried to apologise but it was clear they weren’t entirely sincere. She called him a pathetic fool. He pinned her to the wall.

 

Everything about their story was tinged with violence.

 

When she first saw him, she had been struck by the ruggedness of his face and his demeanour, but what had really drawn her to him was the revolver he didn’t try to hide when he removed his jacket. He had caught her staring at it and he had given her a half-smile that at that moment was oh-so-charming. They had first talked away from the eyes of her father on the make shift shooting range had had set up with an old picnic table and bottles that once contained cheap whiskey. He didn’t miss once. The danger and violence he exuded captivated her. They had first kissed when he taught her to shoot. He had stood behind her to steady her arm, breath warm on her neck. It became too much for both of them to handle.

 

Even when they didn’t hate each other, even when they could stand to look at each other, there was something dangerous there. When they weren’t yelling at each other and acting almost like normal people do, the threat that it would blow up in their faces was always there, and they could both sense it. It gave these periods an all-consuming desperation to be cherished; an almost violent urgency to be enjoyed.

 

Even now, when he’s sitting beside her in her cell, telling her “for better or worse” holding her hand even though she lays her head on her shoulder she’s hesitant to take comfort from it. The moment was too gentle.

 

And gentle is just not a thing they do.

 


End file.
